


sick with love

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Geralt has been feeling...weirdaround Jaskier lately. The logical conclusion? He's obviously sick. (Spoiler: he isn't.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 464





	sick with love

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Geralt had a _problem_. The problem had started not long after he had reunited with Jaskier after their fight on the mountain. He had searched for him, quickly finding him in a small town by himself. Jaskier had been— _furious_ , maybe the most furious he had ever seen, spitting at him, smacking his chest, eyes swollen and bloodshot from crying.

But then—Geralt had apologized, _finally_ , and all the energy had left Jaskier at once, shoulders slumping.

“You big, stupid, selfish _idiot_ ,” he had said before hugging him, sobbing harder.

After that, things had changed for the better. Geralt made an effort to be nicer, and—even harder than that— _honest,_ both with himself and Jaskier. It wasn’t just him, surprisingly. Jaskier learned to respect his wishes; if he said he wanted silence or privacy, he would listen.

They hadn’t had a fight, beyond the occasional bickering, ever since then.

But despite all that, there was a problem; ever since their reunion, Geralt had been experiencing— _things_. Weird sensations. When he sat with Jaskier at supper, his chest felt— _tight_. He wondered at first if he was sick, but surely he would have more symptoms than _that_.

When they sparred, as Geralt had been teaching him to fight, the feeling was there, mostly dormant. _Until_ —he slammed Jaskier to the ground, his dagger sliding away from him and stopping a few away. He made sure to never hurt him, of course, it was just for show.

But when he did that, every time, like clockwork, he felt a pang in his chest.

The sensation only _increased_ when Jaskier smiled at him. “Yeah, yeah, you win.” He would push against his chest. “Now get off, you big oaf.”

It was only getting worse—that annoying _tingling—_ as time went on. Maybe he really was sick.

_Then_ —

He was sitting in the back of a tavern, poking at his food while Jaskier performed. It was the beginning of winter; the days were cold and nights were even colder. Jobs were always hardest to find during these months, which was why he usually returned to Kaer Morhen during the winter but—he didn’t want to go. Not just yet.

He had been moping, or so Jaskier _claimed_ , when he suddenly said, “I’ll take care of it.”

Jumping up, he had grabbed his lute and walked over to the fireplace, announcing himself loudly. Jaskier had gotten a reputation for himself over the decades, and lots of folks _dreamed_ of hearing him play. As soon as he had strummed the first string, smiling brightly, they had started tossing coins in his hat or at his feet.

Geralt had been hungry, _before_ , but now he was too distracted by Jaskier to eat, food growing cold in front of him. Jaskier always performed like he was made for it. Made to be the center of attention. He spun around the tavern, winking at patrons, both men and women, uncaring of gender or—maybe more bravely—the consequences. Thankfully they were in a fairly progressive city.

(Not all places around the Continent were as accepting of that kind of thing, unfortunately.)

He remembered the first time he had learned of Jaskier’s preferences, or lack thereof. They had stopped by a brothel, long before the dragon hunt. Jaskier had asked for a man without missing a beat. Geralt had paused, not expecting it.

The bawd had waved him off, laughing like it was some kind of joke. Huffing, Jaskier had ended the night with a woman.

But on the way to their rooms—

“ _Were_ you joking?” he asked around the lump in his throat, unsure why it was there.

Jaskier looked at him, mouth twisted in a frown. “Is that a problem?”

_Hardly_ , he had thought, because he also enjoyed the company of both men and women, depending on the night. But for some reason all he could say was, “No.”

Jaskier looked away again. But before they had parted ways, having reached their separate rooms, Jaskier grabbed his arm. He visibly hesitated for a long moment. “Thank you,” he said finally, an odd expression on his face, unreadable to the other man.

After letting go, and without waiting for a response, he had entered his room.

Back to the present, he watched as Jaskier slithered across the tavern, stopping at his—what had been their—table just moments earlier. He winked at him, singing smoothly. It was one of his classics, well-known and beloved by the public, played across the Continent by many different bards, all _dreaming_ of reaching Jaskier’s renown.

_I'm weak my love, and I am wanting  
If this is the path I must trudge  
I welcome my sentence  
Give to you my penance  
Garrotter, jury and judge_

Geralt’s chest was tight, tight, _tight_ as Jaskier paused between verses, grabbing Geralt’s tankard and taking a gulp of his beer. Winking, he set it back in front of him with a _thump_ before returning to the fireplace, continuing the song. There was a mountain of coins at his feet and in his hat, enough to keep them fed and sheltered for a couple months _at least._

Geralt’s eyes flickered to the tankard, nearly empty after Jaskier’s greedy gulp. Swallowing thickly, he grabbed it and took a hesitant sip, finishing it off. His chest felt like it was on fire, the pit of his stomach was unusually heavy and he hadn’t even eaten very much. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt. Maybe he wasn’t just _sick_.

Maybe he was dying. Of course not, he thought, quickly brushing it off. Finished with his performance, Jaskier bowed and collected the money, returning with a wicked grin.

“ _Well?_ ” he prompted as he dropped the coins on the table, clanking loudly.

Geralt smiled, unable to help himself. He had trouble, lately, _not_ smiling when he was around Jaskier. It was frankly ruining his reputation. “You did well,” he said, lazily counting the coins.

Jaskier beamed, looking pleased with himself, as he waved down the server, ordering more drinks.

Three weeks later, at the peak of winter, they parted ways. It was a mutual decision, really. Jaskier was human, and he couldn’t keep sleeping in the woods during such cold nights, too risky for his health. As for Geralt, he knew where to go—Kaer Morhen, like always.

Except—when he woke up the morning after they had parted ways, he felt— _that_ sensation, from before, but even worse. He rolled over, staring at the empty spot next to him.

The tightness in his chest was almost suffocating. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with me?” he asked. No answer, of course, just the distant chirps of crickets.

Standing up, he gathered his things and set off in the opposite direction of Kaer Morhen, headed toward a _new_ destination. Four days later, he found her; she was staying in a small cottage, surprisingly quaint. Then again she wasn’t _Yennefer_.

“Geralt,” she said upon answering the door, eyes widening. “I—I wasn’t expecting, um. Hello.”

Triss looked as beautiful as ever in a modest dress, a wrap over her shoulders. She glanced behind her and back again.

“Did you need something?” she asked sweetly. She always had been so different from Yennefer.

Geralt shifted on his feet. “I need help,” he said slowly. Asking for help had never been particularly easy for him, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Triss nodded, frowning. “Um, is it urgent?” she asked, biting her lip. “Could you return in a few—”

“I think I’m sick,” he interrupted, spilling the truth.

Triss stiffened, eyes widening again. “Oh,” she said simply. “Okay, um.” She stepped out of the way. “Come on.” Geralt walked in, roaming down the hall; the cottage was enchanted inside, but only barely, still small compared to how most mages he knew lived. “Wait,” she said right before he rounded the corner and spotted—

“Yennefer,” he greeted stiffly.

She was sitting at a table in a small kitchen, nursing a steaming mug of _something_. Tea, maybe.

A few minutes later, they were all sitting around the table. Triss had fetched him a mug of tea, something with peppermint, but he wasn’t drinking it. Yennefer glared at him, obviously unimpressed with the interruption. He just wanted to know why she was _here_. He knew they were friends, but still—there was something off.

“So,” Triss said calmly. “I think we should tell him.”

Yennefer looked at her like she was crazy. “Why?”

She frowned at her. “Yen,” she said softly. “He is our friend, no matter how much you enjoy denying it.” Geralt was silent, waiting. Finally Yennefer nodded before taking a sip of her drink, pointedly looking away. Triss turned toward him, smiling sweetly. “We’re together.”

His brain worked embarrassingly slow. “What?”

Triss didn’t look offended by his reaction. “We’re together,” she repeated simply. “Have been for—a few months, now, but honestly could’ve happened much sooner if we both hadn’t been so focused on undeserving men.” She paused, looking genuinely guilty. “I mean—”

Geralt cut her off, a hand in the air. “Uh,” he said lamely. “I’m… _happy_ for you and—you,” he said, looking at Yennefer. He was surprised by how much he meant it.

“Now,” Triss said, no longer smiling. “Geralt, could you please tell her what you told me?”

He hesitated. Yennefer looked at him finally, an edge of concern to her delicate features. “Geralt?”

“I think I’m sick,” he said. “I—don’t know with what, or why, but there’s just something… _wrong_ with me.”

Yennefer sat up a little straighter, eyes flashing with concern. “What do you mean?” she asked sharply. “Geralt, use your _words_.”

“I don’t _know_ what’s going on!” he exclaimed loudly, slamming his hands down on the table. Their mugs clattered, spilling a bit. Triss quickly grabbed a cloth. He thought he was _dying_ , okay, he had a reason to be a little— _emotional_. “But ever since I reunited with Jaskier, I haven’t been feeling like myself. There’s a—a weird tightness in my chest. Sometimes I feel like I can’t even _breathe_. Or—or something like a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach.”

He finished, looking down. Both of the women were eerily quiet. He wondered if he’d been cursed, somehow, and they were too afraid to tell him.

“Geralt,” Triss said finally, and he looked up, preparing for the worst. But she was watching him with an amused quirk to her mouth, and Yennefer—the witch—was stifling a _laugh_.

He frowned. “I did not think I would be _laughed_ at,” he said coldly.

She reached out, fast, touching his arm. “Geralt,” she repeated softly. “I don’t think you’re sick. _Or_ dying.”

Geralt stared at her, not understanding. “You don’t?” He glanced at Yennefer, but she was still stifling a laugh.

“Let me ask you a question,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Or a few.”

He looked at her again, nodding.

“Do you feel like that when you’re _not_ around Jaskier?”

Geralt did not understand the question. “I don’t…” But he paused and thought about it. “Not really,” he said finally, still not understanding. “Well, maybe if I—” _think about him._ He paused abruptly. Yennefer’s laugh finally cut through the air. He slumped in his chair, staring at the table with a blank expression. “I don’t understand.”

Except—that wasn’t true. Not exactly.

“Did you not feel similarly for Yen?” she asked softly, carefully.

Geralt shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t feel this,” he said simply. He had felt arousal, certainly, at even the memory of her. But this was different. Very different. Suddenly everything was clicking—connecting—in his mind, making sense.

The way he watched Jaskier when they bathed together in streams, usually without even realizing it, a tightness in his chest.

How he always felt better at even just the sight of one of Jaskier’s crooked grins.

“You should probably find him,” Yennefer said surprisingly. He looked at her, leaned back in her own chair.

Geralt swallowed around the lump in his throat. “But why?” he asked. “He doesn’t—”

She kicked his shin, and he cursed, more surprised than anything. “If you _seriously_ don’t think he feels the same way, I will _scream_. He’s painfully and embarrassingly obvious about his feelings for you, Geralt, has been ever since we met.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “And you never thought to _tell_ me?”

“Wasn’t my secret to tell,” she said, grinning. Geralt just scoffed; as if she was a saint.

Triss intercepted smoothly, squeezing his arm again. “She’s right,” she said. “You should find him, talk to him.”

“And say _what?_ ” he asked. “Words aren’t exactly my thing.”

Yennefer admired her nails, short and dark, still grinning. “Oh, we know.”

“ _Yen_ ,” the other sorceress said, just a little sharp. Yennefer sighed dramatically, dropping her hands. Triss turned back to him. “Just be honest with him, Geralt,” she said earnestly. He looked away. “I know that’s not easy for you,” she continued, even softer, “and I understand why, we _all_ do, but you owe it—to yourself _and_ him.”

All he could do was nod.

He left the next morning while they were both still asleep, leaving a note. Finding Jaskier wasn’t very hard; he stumbled across him in a small town, performing at a tavern.

At first he just watched him, leaning in the doorway. He only moved when a person cleared their throat. Jaskier turned, finally spotting him, and he stuttered over his next words, quickly making up for it.

Once he was finished, he collected the coins and walked over. “I thought—it’s only been a few days, Geralt.” His eyes flickered over his form. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he answered stiffly. Jaskier just looked at him with more worry. He cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”

Jaskier nodded without missing a beat, lightly touching his arm. Geralt’s skin burned from the contact, even through the many layers separating them. “Okay,” he said. “Of course. Did you want to talk here or—?”

“No,” he answered quickly. “Um, do you have a room at the inn?”

A few minutes later, Geralt was in Jaskier’s room at the inn. It was as nondescript as every other room in the inn; the only sign of Jaskier’s existence was a few parchment pages scattered across the bed, words messily scribbled on them.

Jaskier swiftly shoved them off the bed, sitting. “Come,” he said. “I’m assuming you’re in no rush to leave?”

He almost sounded— _hopeful_ , but surely he was imagining that. He had missed him as much as he’d missed him? Geralt walked across the room and sat on the bed, close but not too close.

“Do you know where I was, before I came here?” he asked, obviously knowing the answer but needing a starter.

Jaskier blinked at him, tilting his head. Geralt found himself taking in new details of his face. Like his eyes, always so bright, under thick eyelashes. The curve of his mouth, always promising a smile. The mole under his chin, usually hidden from sight.

“No,” he answered with a hint of amusement. “Where were you?”

Geralt looked down. He found himself distracted by Jaskier’s hands, surprisingly rough from years of playing. “I visited Triss, and—well, Yennefer happened to be there.” He looked up, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Did you know they were a _thing_?”

Jaskier gasped genuinely. “You’re fucking with me,” he said. “Seriously?”

Feeling a bit less tense, probably because the topic wasn’t about _him_ , he nodded. “Seriously.”

Jaskier laughed lightly, looking away. “Huh.”

They were silent after that, for too long. Geralt knew he was only putting off the inevitable. “I went to them,” he said finally, slowly, not looking at Jaskier, “because I thought I was sick.”

The bed creaked as Jaskier moved, placing a hand on his arm again. “Geralt,” he said in that way that meant _you’re a fucking idiot_ and _I really fucking care about you despite it_. “Why didn’t you say anything? For how long?”

Geralt almost laughed because it was all just so ridiculous. How had he not realized his own feelings for Jaskier? They were so _apparent_ , always there, an essential part of him.

“Since we met again,” he said, “after the mountain.”

Jaskier stiffened; he could feel it. But he laughed it off. “Oh. Um. That’s odd. Did they know anything?”

“Not… exactly,” he admitted. Jaskier stared at him, a worried crease between his eyebrows. Always there for him, even when he didn’t deserve it. Taking a deep breath, he reached out for his hand, taking it. His fingers were rough, just like he remembered, calloused over from playing. Jaskier instinctively squeezed his hand. “But they helped me realize what I was feeling.”

Jaskier scooted closer. He seemed to be having trouble taking his eyes off their hands. “Okay?”

He wondered how he would react—if Yennefer was right, and he felt the same way. If not, what would happen to them?

“I have feelings for you,” he said, as evenly as he could, “ _beyond_ that of friendship.”

The few seconds following his confession felt like hours. Days, even. Jaskier stared at him, unblinking, obviously absorbing the information. Geralt wondered if he had ruined them. He had a tendency to do that—ruin good things. Good _people._

But then—he squeezed his hand, tight. “Are you fucking with me right now, Geralt,” he said, too fast, never pausing, “because _I swear_ to every God on this forsaken planet—if you are _messing_ with me right now, or this is some kind of sick joke, I will _fucking_ —”

Geralt reacted instinctively; he lurched forward, slamming their lips together. Jaskier let out a surprised gasp, but pointedly did not pull away. Not at first, at least.

He adjusted, their mouths sliding together without the painful clanking of teeth. Geralt could’ve stayed there, kissing him, for the rest of his life and he would’ve been—happy. Fuck, he was _happy_. He felt the lightest he had in _decades,_ like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

After a few seconds, Jaskier finally pulled back, taking a shaky breath. “You’re not joking,” he said. It wasn’t a question, so Geralt didn’t bother answering—not with words, at least, but he did squeeze his hand, just to be sure.

“Fuck,” Jaskier said through a disbelieving laugh. “How didn’t I— _Fuck_.”

Geralt smiled slightly, just the smallest curl of his mouth. “To be fair,” he said with a shrug, “ _I_ didn’t even know what I was feeling until—uh— _yesterday_.”

That wasn’t surprising; decades of holding in your emotions, blocking them out, ignoring them, convincing yourself they were unimportant, did a number on a person. Geralt buried his emotions, by now, without even having to think about it.

But—maybe he didn’t want to do that anymore. Maybe some emotions were _worth_ feeling.

Jaskier laughed again, eyes wet, and Geralt didn’t know what to do. He reached up, hesitating for a split-second, before touching his fingertips to his cheek.

“You’re crying,” he said, almost frowning.

Jaskier turned his head, eyelashes fluttering as he kissed the palm of Geralt’s hand. “Because I’m happy,” he said, barely a whisper. Geralt had no trouble hearing him though, and Jaskier knew he wouldn’t. Because he _knew_ Geralt; he knew every part of him, good and bad, and he _still_ wanted him. Geralt never thought he’d be so lucky. He _still_ didn’t think he was deserving.

“You still want me,” he said, swallowing around needles, “even though I’ve hurt you so many times?”

Jaskier looked at him. “You’ll never stop hurting me, Geralt,” he said, and he flinched, a pain in his chest like an arrow being twisted. But then—Jaskier was shifting, straddling him. They were about the same height, but he felt so much smaller in his lap. Geralt reached up, placing his hands on his sides. “And I’ll hurt you. But that’s just part of life.”

Jaskier leaned in, not quite brushing their lips together. Geralt wanted to kiss him, but he held back.

“No one is perfect,” he continued softly. “What matters is that we try to be better. For each other.”

Geralt wanted that; he wanted to be the best version of himself. Not just for Jaskier, but himself. He squeezed his sides. Smiling, Jaskier pressed their lips together.


End file.
